Though grandfather has long been blind,
And his few locks are gray,
He loves to feel the Summer wind,
Round his pale temples play.
We'll lead him to some quiet place,
Some unfrequented nook,
Where winds breathe soft, and wild flow'rs grace
The borders of the brook.
There he shall sit, as in a dream,
Though nought he can behold;
Till the brook's murmur—it shall seem,
The voice of friends of old.
Think no more of them, aged man,
For here thou hast no friend;
Think—since this life is but a span,
Of joys that have no end.